University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LAST WILLING SACRIFICE OF LOVE.

The spirit of Vasco Nunez, like that of all truly great
men, rose more proudly under the pressure of injustice.
He was more surprised than sorrowful at the precipitate
and wanton judgment which had been passed upon him.
From Pedrarias, indeed, he had no favour to expect. He
had long known his violent, vindictive, and arbitrary character;
but there was a painful mystery, which vexed and
troubled him, in the conduct of the woman, his fatal love
for whom, as the astrologer had long before assured him
would be the case, had been his undoing. “Surely,” he
thought, “she cannot believe me this traitor. Surely she
cannot, without a word, a prayer, an effort, have given me
up to this wanton malice of her sire. Her prayers, her
tears, even if they availed nothing in my behalf with that
cold-hearted and inflexible old man, must at least have been
poured forth in supplication at his feet. This faith must
be my consolation to the last. And yet, wherefore is she
not here? Why seeks she not the prison of one to whom
she hath written such burning words as these? Nay, let
me not question her affection. How should he suffer her
to seek the presence of one whom he hath declared his
enemy, and hath thus relentlessly delivered over to a bitter
death. Even now she sorrows with a pang keener than my
own; and it may be that her prison is no less close. Alas!
that I should pray for this, Teresa. If I thought otherwise,
the pang of my own bondage would be far less supportable,
and the death which awaits me would most surely
be the only relief.”

His musings were interrupted by the entrance of the
astrologer, whose tidings brought him no consolation. The

old man had vainly striven to interest the most influential
persons in Acla in behalf of the condemned. They were
all too much in awe of the wanton disposition of the
governor, to take any active part in opposition to his will;
and the soldiers at Acla were chiefly the new recruits
brought with him from Spain, most of whom regarded
Vasco Nunez with hostility rather than with favour. His
own warriors, the “old soldiers of Darien,” upon whom he
could have relied to wrest him from the tyrant, or revenge
his death, were all improvidently left behind him at Isla
Rica. Bitterly, indeed, as his mind reverted to the counsels
of the astrologer, did he denounce his own folly and
blindness, in thus, as it were, depriving himself of all
strength and succour, and rushing, with headlong haste,
into the snares of his enemy.

“But of what avail now,” he exclaimed, “of what avail
to look back on what might have been done. It is the
fool's philosophy that rejects the wholesome medicine
which would save if taken in season, yet seeks to swallow
it greedily while death is closing up the channel of his
throat. I were doubly a fool now to brood over the old
follies which no after wisdom may repair. Micer Codro,
my friend, my father, thou art old; it will not be many
years ere we meet again; and then it is my trust we shall
not be separated. There will then be no tyranny to crush
our hearts, to baffle our hopes, to deny us our conquests,
and subject us to the unmerited pangs of a bloody death.
The hope which rises from the grave, Micer Codro, is the
most secure of all the hopes of humanity.”

The sorrows of the old man were inexpressible—they
impeded and even choked his utterance.

“Would I could die for thee, my son. Would I could,
in the last pang and agony, for thy sake undergone, bid
thee fly to thy unfinished conquests. Yet thy fame is secure;
that blessing have the stars which favoured thee
yielded to our hope. No tyranny can touch thy greatness,
written on the eternal rocks of Darien, and murmured aloud
in every billow that breaks upon its shores. The world,
to which thou hast given a world no less vast and wondrous
than that of Colon, will preserve thy memory.”

“It is my hope.”

“It is thy only hope—the life immortal when the other
life is denied. My son, thy doom is unchangeably written.

Thy tyrant is inflexible, and the stars are no less so. The
hour hurries on—the day and night are now at meeting.
Prepare thyself for the stroke and the parting.”

“Jesu be my strength in the trying hour. I do not fear
to die. The pang, Micer Codro,—the only pang is in the
parting—the loss of sunlight and the day—the loss of the
bright green wood and the glittering, flowing waters—the
song of birds and the sweet tones of those who love us;—
these are the pangs which come with death, and make it
terrible. Besides, Micer Codro, there is still so much left
to be done. Others will follow me, and achieve those
triumphs on which my heart was set, and to which my
sword has pointed out the way. How many glorious labours
do I leave unfinished; and—thou wilt smile when
I mingle these together—Teresa.”

“Would thine eyes had never beheld her! Knowest
thou not what is said in Acla?”

“What is said in Acla?—What of Teresa?”

“It is said that Vasco Nunez is not doomed because of
his treason to his sovereign, but because of his treachery
to Teresa Davila. One of the crimes of which thou hast
been accused to Pedrarias and to his daughter, is thy
fondness for the poor Careta. Thy secretary, Pedro, hath
assured them that thou wouldst never wed with Teresa;
but wast bent to fly with Careta to new lands beyond the
dominion of Pedrarias, and in utter scorn of thy engagements
with his daughter. This, though no part of the
charge against thee, is that charge which has made Pedrarias
most wrathful, since, if it were true, and he most certainly
believes it, then did thy resolution sever the only
sure hold which he had upon thy obedience.”

“Now may the fiends light upon the base villain that
spoke this falsehood.”

“Call it not a falsehood, my dear lord,” cried the voice
of Careta, as she rushed forward from the entrance of the
prison, and threw herself at the feet of the prisoner,—“call
it not a falsehood; let the poor Indian believe it for the
truth. It is so sweet the thought, even though it be now
hopeless, that thou wouldst have left the Spanish lady to
have gone with Careta into the forests—not the forests of
Coyba, but forests afar off, behind the blue hills where the
sun hides himself day after day. It was true, my lord. I
know it was true. It could not be that thou wouldst cast

the poor Indian from thy arms—she that loved thee so dearly
as Careta.”

He clasped her to his bosom in a sudden agony of
self-reproach and sorrow, and for a time was speechless.—
His words, when he spoke at last, were the fruits of spasmodic
effort; and his breast heaved as if he were in the
midst of a mortal strife, at the utterance of every syllable.

“My poor Careta, I have done thee cruel wrong.”

“No, no! How couldst thou do wrong to the Indian
woman, when thou hast taken her to thy bosom, and
taught her thy language and thy faith, and hast protected
her people, and given them wealth, and made them
happy. And thou hast made Careta happy too. Thou
hast been kind to her always; and thou hast brought her
to see thy God, and to love him, and made her pray to go
to thy heaven when she dies.”

“Yes, yes, I reproach myself not for these, Careta; but
there are other matters of which I have great need to reproach
myself, no less because of their wickedness and
folly, than because of their great injustice to thee. It is
true, Careta, that, in an evil hour, under the guidance of a
mad passion for another, whom I had beheld and loved
with a blind admiration long before I had looked upon
thee—nay, long before I came to Darien—I resolved to give
thee up, to cast away thy love, which had been so sweet to
me and so dear, and to sacrifice thy poor heart to the
prouder dominion of another. I do not seek to excuse
myself now by telling thee that the counsel of friends and
the desperate condition of my own life, compelled me to
this resolve; for, of a truth, if my own heart had not desired
this maiden, who is lovely beyond compare, I had not
fallen away from my faith to thee. Of this crime, then, am
I guilty without excuse or allay. I came from Isla Rica
for this purpose; and I am but rightly rewarded for my
treachery to thee, by this doom, which punishes for a
treachery of which my soul is guiltless. Thou hast heard
nothing now, Careta, but the truth, and—canst thou love
me any longer?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, my lord! Wert thou to slay Careta
with thy knife, she would love thee the same as ever. But
this lady, is she then so beautiful, my lord? Is she so
beautiful now, and will she not beg her father to forgive my

lord, and let him go free out of prison without these
chains?”

“She is even beautiful as I have said, Careta.”

“Then she should be good; and if she loves my lord,
it is like she was angry when she heard that thou wert fond
of a poor Indian woman of Darien. Let her take my lord
to her arms, and wed him, and—and—Oh! my lord,
if she will do this, let her father send Careta back to
Coyba, but let him spare the life of my lord. Careta will
be sorry, but not angry, when my lord loves her no
longer.”

“I will always love thee, Careta; nay, I have always
loved thee, even when I sent thee from my side, and set
forth on this sad expedition to wed another. But my heart
was wretched while I went, and my thoughts were strange
and wild. Thy purpose to save me will do me little help.
It is not now in the power of Teresa to save me, else do I
think I were safe. Her father hates me, Careta, and will
not sleep until he hath shed my blood upon the block.”

“Alas! alas!” cried the woman, lifting up the heavy double
chains which encompassed and wearied the arms of the
prisoner. Her tears fell fast upon them, and her words,
subsiding into occasional moans, left the astrologer and
Vasco Nunez free to resume the conversation which her
presence had interrupted. While this conversation proceeded,
her attention was fixed by a renewal of the last
topic upon which they had been engaged—namely, the evil
but undeclared influence which the connexion of Vasco
Nunez with the Indian woman had maintained over the
conduct of Pedrarias, prompting that vindictive pursuit of
his victim, which he had shown throughout the trial, and
which had evidently overawed the alcalde, and compelled
his unwilling sentence of death. While she listened, she
started abruptly to her feet, and prepared to depart. Vasco
Nunez would have detained her.

“Wherefore would you leave me, Careta? Heed not
the speech of Micer Codro and myself. My time in life
is so short, that I would not lose you from my side while
we are permitted to be together. Nay, you have not yet
told me how you obtained entrance. Could it be that Pedrarias
suffered this? He hath been barely willing to let
Micer Codro approach me;—and thou!”

“I saw him not, my lord,” she replied hastily, and still

seeking to extricate herself from his grasp, “but I showed
the gold which the Spaniard worships to the soldier at the
door, and he took his god and suffered me to enter. Let
me now leave thee, my lord—it is needful—I will return to
thee again soon.”

Vasco Nunez would still have detained her, but a sign
and word from the astrologer, to whom a sudden thought
had suggested itself, moved him to compliance with her
demand. She had scarcely disappeared when the old man
spoke.

“There is yet hope for thee, my son. If she hath
bribed the soldier with gold to obtain entrance, wherefore
should we not bribe him with more gold to obtain thy release.
I have in my possession a sum which would buy
most soldiers of Pedrarias, and Jesu forbid that we should
leave any effort untried to win thy freedom. I will seek
him now; there is little time to lose. Do thou pray
that thy sentinel hath a soul sufficiently sworn to avarice
that we may buy him to the performance of a virtue to
which he would not otherwise incline.”

With these words he left his companion, to try the efficacy
of gold upon the gaoler. That hope which dies not even
in death, during the brief interval which followed his absence,
sprang up anew in the bosom of the prisoner. His
soul seemed to rise on strong wings to the eminence of
life; and the fervour of fresh blood seemed to be vouchsafed
to the heart but a moment before prostrate, if not
torpid, and looking only on the backward paths of life,
dreading every glance upon the future. His hope was of
short duration. The gaoler was one of the chosen creatures
of Pizarro, and, it appeared, rendered hostile to Vasco
Nunez in consequence of a punishment to which the latter
had subjected him months before, as the reward of some
petty offence, agains order, of which he had been guilty.
He had not refused the gold of the Indian woman, since
her presence in the prison could have availed the victim
nothing in his desire for escape. But the greater object he
at once denied.

“Take back your gold, old man,” he answered, “and no
more words, lest I report you to the Señor Francisco. As
for the Señor Vasco, when you have reminded him that I
am that Gil Sandanha, whom he scourged at Coyba for
little reason, he will see reason enough why I should not

let him forth. He hath had his turn,—it is but right that I
should have mine. Besides, a word in your ear: when he
dies, as with God's grace he does to-morrow at noon, then
the Señor Francisco will succeed to his command upon the
South Sea; and under him, and there, I trow I should win
more gold than any in thy pouch to offer. I were a pretty
fool to set the Señor Vasco free to spoil all this goodly
prospect.”

The astrologer made another trial.

“Your fortune shall not be spoiled by this measure. I
promise you, on behalf of the Señor Vasco, a command
under him on the South Sea, and better chances than any
which Pizarro would secure thee.”

“In, in! In or out, old man. It will not answer thee to
argue thus. You cannot move me. Were I to set my
prisoner free, there were a thousand chances to one that he
could not escape pursuit. I will not endanger my small
certainty for any uncertainty, however large, which it may
please you or him in his desperation to offer. Men in the
noose are apt to be liberal of promise much beyond their
means. Ye blind me not in this fashion. That I have,
that will I secure. In, and no more of this.”

The keen ears of the prisoner had taken in the tenor of
this brief dialogue, which, in an instant, overturned the
pleasant hopes which had sprung up into sudden life about
his heart; and the walls of his prison grew darker in the
deeper gloom which followed the sudden privation of that
momentary light which had illumed them. The aged man
refurned with weary steps, and a heart doubly wo-worn,—
and long was the silence that succeeded, in that dreary dungeon,
the fruitless effort which he had made in behalf of his
companion.

Far different from theirs was the new feeling in the
bosom of the Indian damsel. A noble, generous resolve,
the natural growth of a nature no less lofty than it was
sweet, pure, and unpretending, led her forward, with impatient
footsteps that heeded neither fatigue nor danger, to
the rude palace which Pedrarias occupied. A hope had
arisen in her heart, that by her own sacrifice she might
yet save the man she loved. Fond and faithful, in her
childish simplicity of soul, she fancied that by declaring to
the Spanish lady her own resignation of all claims upon
Vasco Nunez, she should move the latter in his favour;

nothing doubting, that if, as she fully believed, the report
of his connexion with her, had led, more than any thing
beside, to his bitter sentence, her release, and the solemn
pledge which she meant to offer, of her flight from his
presence, would serve to restore him to the favour which
he had lost, and to security from the penal doom which
threatened him. She never once doubted the love of Teresa
for the chief; and her meditated course partook of a
still more romantic air of generosity, when she reflected all
the while upon the happiness which she was about to
bestow upon a vexed and jealous rival. Alas! she little
knew how much of cold and selfish littleness might dwell
in the palace of civilization—in the heart of woman,—and
under the guise of innocence and beauty. Could she but
have dreamed, that, among the thousand phases of feeling
common to her sex, there could be one so utterly and perversely
at variance with the first fresh impulses of humanity,
as that which held predominant sway in the bosom
of the vain, capricious woman whom she sought, it might
have checked her own forward impulse—it might have
brought to her mind a precautionary doubt of the success
of that effort which she proposed to make, and which she
fancied, in the exuberance of her own true feelings, could
not be other than successful.

The lady Teresa sat in her chamber, or rather reclined,
in a loose undress suited to the season, upon a low couch,
the rich magnificence of which was strangely at variance
with the rude exterior of every thing around her. She was
unemployed, and her countenance was expressive of
thought, or at least, contemplation. Her face was grave
rather than sad, and the influence which at that moment
formed her mood, seemed to derive its character rather
from her mind than from her feelings. These seemed to
be little touched by the circumstances going on around her,
and in which, her recent relation with the mighty victim
destined for the sacrifice, considered, she might be naturally
supposed to have a leading and painful interest, even if she
recognised the perfect justice of his doom. The Searcher
of hearts, alone, could say, with certainty, what were her
thoughts and feelings; the student of human character
could only conjecture them. With him it would be conclusive
against her, that her attitude was studiously graceful,
her robes disposed with propriety and a flowing neatness,

her long hair adjusted in wandering ringlets, and her
features, grave however they might be, indicative rather of
disquieting annoyances than of any serious and absorbing
subject of sorrow at work within her bosom. Her gravity
and solitude would, to him, seem more like the tribute
which the slave of social decorum would be expected to
pay to the expectations of society, than because of the influence
of any innate and intrinsic feelings toiling for the
same effect. It was proper that the Lady Teresa should
be sad at this season in Acla, and the Lady Teresa was sad
accordingly.

Her solitude, and the silence of her chamber, were disturbed
on a sudden by the sound of lightly-falling footsteps.
She looked up without any emotion, and the Indian woman
stood before her. Careta had hurried into the presence of
the lofty lady with a precipitation that was natural to such
emotions as filled her heart. But a sudden thrill went
through her veins, and her feet were fastened to the floor in
the instant that their eyes encountered. The poor Indian
needed no second glance to conceive the reason of her own
desertion by her noble lover. The beauty of Teresa Davila—the
haughty and majestic character of her charms,
even heightened by the gravity which her features wore—
seemed overpowering in her sight; and the pulsation
ceased for an instant at her heart, and her eyes were riveted
on the gorgeous presence, while her hands were slightly
lifted, and extended towards her, as if in the act of supplication.
If the glorious beauty which she beheld did not
excuse the faithlessness of her lover, the thought was
prompt in the mind of Careta, which told her it sufficiently
accounted for it.

“Whence come you? Who are you?” demanded Teresa,
as her unlooked-for visiter still stood gazing with
worshipping or wondering eyes in perfect silence upon
her. The words of the lady freed the fettered limbs, if not
the tongue of the intruder; and rushing forward, without a
word, she threw herself at her feet, and grasping her hand,
carried it to her lips; then, suddenly releasing it, she drew
backwards, still kneeling the while, and with her eyes and
face nearly to the floor, she groaned aloud, and the thickcoming
sobs, which rose from the bottom of her heart,
precluded all reply. Teresa, now startled and surprised,
raised herself from her reclining to an upright posture, and

with rapid accents repeated her inquiry. Receiving no
other answer than the continued sobs of the stranger, she
would have risen from the couch and summoned her attendants;
but suspecting her resolution, Careta grasped her
hand at this moment, and, with an obvious effort, controlled
her emotions in part, and rose at the same instant to her
feet.

“I am she, my lady—I am the poor woman of Coyba,
of whom you have heard! I am she who dared to love my
lord, when he was sworn to love none other than your
ladyship. Forgive me, sweet lady, that I have been so
foolish as to lift my eyes where yours have been placed.
I am but a poor Indian—I am not wise like the Spaniard—
I knew not what I did.”

The eyes of Teresa put on a vague inquiring expression
as she replied.

“What may this mean? Of whom,—of what speak
you? There is surely some mistake in this.”

“Thou art the Lady Teresa, the daughter of the
governor, Don Pedrarias?” said Careta.

The reply was affirmative.

“Ah! I knew it could be none other. Thou art beautiful,
my lady,—most beautiful. It were a wonder, indeed,
if there should be a man to behold and not to love thee.”

It was not in the power of Teresa to suppress the pleasurable
expression which mantled her hitherto grave features,
even as a soft glimpse of the dawn warms the cold,
gray foliage of the autumn forests. The tones of her voice
became kind and soothing, as, doubtful of the person who
stood before her, she sought to obtain the desired knowledge.

“Thou hast guessed shrewdly, my pretty damsel; I am
she whom they call Teresa,—I am the daughter of Don
Pedrarias. But thou speakest of my beauty as if it were
worthy to be seen, when thine own is very great. Thou
hast charms which should win the eyes of men among thy
people more certainly than could I among mine.”

“Alas! my lady, do not mock me. When thou speakest
of the beauty of Careta, thou speakest to me of a thing
which is no longer of value in my eyes, even though it
should be deemed worthy in the sight of others. There
was a time—it was not many moons ago—when I loved
but too much to look down into the glassy waters that run

from the mountains of Darien, and behold the features
which thou hast praised too highly, but not more highly
than my own foolish and vain heart, in those days, had esteemed
them. Then, it was a hope in my mind, that
they should seem to the eyes of others as they did in my
own; and when my lord looked upon them—”

“Who is thy lord? What is he of whom thou hast
thrice spoken?” demanded Teresa, with more curiosity, as
she hearkened to a form of speech so much more elevated
than any she had been accustomed to hear from the lips of
the Indian, and surveyed, with increasing interest, the
beauties of a countenance in which resignation to a loss of
all that was dear to her in life, seemed a prevailing sentiment
struggling at the same time with a painful solicitude.

“Ah! have I not said to thee?” was her reply. “Alas!
my lady, this should have been first spoken—the adelantado,
the Señor Vasco Nunez, is my lord.”

“Ha!” was the sudden exclamation of Teresa, her form
rising as she spoke, and a glow passing over her cheek,
which indicated her growing consciousness as to the character
of the person who now stood before her. The
Indian woman, who remarked these passing changes, and
to whom every change seemed full of danger to the one
object in her mind, hastened to conclude the speech which
the exclamation of Teresa had slightly interrupted.

“But he loves not the poor Careta, my lady—he cares
not if she lives or dies. He but took her from Coyba that
he might teach her in the religion of the Christians,—and
now that he hath taught her, she will go back to Coyba,
and live among her own people. Oh! believe me, lady,
they that have told thee that he loved thee not, spoke what
they knew not, and have done my lord a grievous wrong.
I know, my lady, that he loves none but thee; and when
he left Isla Rica, it was only that he might behold and
love thee. This he told me, my lady. He told me by
the lips of the venerable man who reads the stars—he
whom they call Micer Codro. I knew not of thy beauty
then, my lady, and my heart was given to my lord. I
maddened when I heard this tale. I maddened, and flung
myself into the waters of the ocean sea. But the Blessed
Mother saved me from death—saved me, dear lady, that I
might tell thee all the truth, that thou might'st save my
lord. Thou wilt save him—I know thou wilt—thou wilt

go to thy father—thou wilt show him how my lord has
been belied, and he shall then be thine, and thine only.
Careta will bless thee and pray for thee in Coyba, and will
never again look upon my lord. Turn not away from me,
my lady; by the Blessed Mother, I tell thee nothing but
the truth.”

The proud spirit of the Spanish beauty was roused
within her, and her eyes flashed fire upon the Indian
woman as her speech proceeded. More than once she
would have stopped the flowing accents of her visiter, but
that Careta, as if fearing to leave something unspoken, the
want of which might prejudice her cause, uttered her
words with a rapidity that the more dignified damsel whom
she addressed would have scorned to emulate under circumstances
even more trying to her feelings than those
which prompted the application of the Indian damsel.

“And think you,” she answered, when the other had
fairly ceased—“think you that Teresa Davila will accept
the base leavings of a savage! Look on me woman;—do I
seem like one so desperate in hope and fortune, that I am
to grasp at the refuse of as Indian's intrigue, and take a
doomed traitor to my arms? They have told thee falsehood,
woman; the man of whom thou speakest is as nothing
to the daughter of Don Pedrarias Davila!”

The Indian woman sank back affrighted,—her lips parted
with an expression almost of horror,—certainly of consternation,—and
her hands were uplifted, as if in deprecation of
that haughty anger which she had so unwittingly provoked.
When she recovered breath, however, to continue her appeal,
she did so. There was too much at stake, to suffer
her to be discouraged by what she heard.

“Forgive me, noble lady—I have said what has vexed
my lady—I know not the good speech of the Spaniards—
I am a poor Indian woman of Coyba. But was it not true
that my lord was to wed with the Lady Teresa?”

“There was some such treaty with my father,” was
the reply, “but that was when the Senor Vasco was an
honourable gentleman—not when he became a traitor to
his sovereign.”

“But my lady loved him then?”

“Ay—perhaps,” was the hesitating answer.

“Alas! can she not love him yet? Oh! my lady, if he
were a traitor to the king, believe me he was ever true to

thee. Do not thou leave him to his enemies. They seek
his life. He is doomed to die to-morrow ere the sun goes
down. One word from thee to thy father, and he lives.”

“Ay, to become once more a traitor—to take once more
his Indian beauty to his arms.”

“The blessed mother of God forbid, my lady. No, no!
From that hour which makes him free, my lady, Careta
looks not upon him. He loves not the poor Indian. He
loves thee—only thee, my lady. Jesu be merciful and incline
thy heart to him. Go to thy father, noble lady, and
let thy tears beg for his life.”

“My tears! No, no! It cannot be—I can do nothing in
his behalf, even if I would.”

“But thou wouldst—thou wilt!”

The Spanish lady was silent; but her silence denoted
any thing but compliance. Her lips were closed with an
air of inflexible determination. The Indian was not satisfied.

“Hear the poor woman of Coyba, my lady—hear her
—have pity on her speech, and forgive when she offends
thee. She means not to offend; but her heart is full of
fear and sorrow, and she cannot stop to speak. She hath
loved my lord—she loves him even now—oh! how truly,
how fondly, she feels deep in her heart, though she cannot
show it with her tongue, which is a poor Indian's. Yet
she gives him up to thee, because he loves thee. She will
say to him, `be happy, my lord, with the Spanish lady;'—I
will pray in Coyba for his happiness and yours. He shall
be all thine, my lady, if thou wilt but save his life. Nay,
if thou fearest the poor Indian, let her die. Let thy father
doom her to death in place of my lord.”

The simple Indian could not persuade herself—indeed,
she had no thought—that the coldness and reluctance of
Teresa arose from any indifference to the object of her own
attachment. Her only impression was, that Teresa was
moved by jealousy to assume an attitude, which she felt
assured was no less unjust to her own feelings than unnatural
in her sex. Not to love Vasco Nunez seemed as
utterly unlikely, as to suffer a brave man to die by a cruel
death, when it was in the power of a woman's voice to
interpose and save him. Unhappily, the words which she
employed were some of them the most ungracious which
could have been chosen for the haughty ears of Teresa.

“Fear thee!” exclaimed the latter, as with, to her, a
natural transition of mind, she turned to a polished steel
mirror that hung upon the walls, and beheld with feminine
complacency the proud beauty which it presented to her
eyes—“Fear thee! Go, my poor woman, go; thy passion
for this traitor hath turned thy brain. It is pity enough;
for thou art comely to the eye. Thou hast erred in setting
thine eyes upon one of another race, and still more in
choosing one so unworthy of thy love. Go—leave me—I
can do nothing for thee—trouble me not again.”

The composed, contemptuous demeanour of the proud
beauty—her ironical tones—the complacent survey of her
person, which, during her speech, she had taken in the
mirror opposite, conveyed to the mind of her observer,
much more than her words, an idea of her true character. In
that instant, the conviction flashed for the first time upon
the Indian woman, of the utter callousness and heartlessness
of the person whom she implored; and she now felt
aware, however difficult it had been to arrive at such a
conclusion, that Teresa Davila had actually suffered herself
to be betrothed to one, and such an one as Vasco Nunez,
without loving him. The poor Indian clasped her
hands together, as these thoughts filled her mind, and her
own tearless eyes were for a moment lifted to heaven. In
another instant she turned them upon the haughty lady,
and a perceptible shiver shook her frame. No exclamation
escaped her lips; but, giving a single look—a look of
horror—at the beauty who stood waving her off with a
smiling scorn playing upon her lips the while,—she darted
from the hateful presence, and, hopeless now of all the
world, fled once more to the prison, which, however
cheerless, contained all that was dear to her heart. The
scorn of Teresa Davila for the object whom she loved,
seemed to have had one effect which was no less
strange than pleasing to her soul. It made him dearer than
ever to her, as it seemed to confirm her own title to his
love. “He shall find,” she murmured to herself as she
went—“he shall find the poor Careta still loves though
she may not save him.”